


Nowhere, USA

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Male Character, Gay Male Character, Light Angst, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Slow Burn, Small Towns, here we go folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:17:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lance is a small town high school senior with no direction in life; only a clawing, all-encompassing desire to leave the little town he's been trapped in for the past 18 years. He feels as though his life is stagnating until he meets Keith, a loose cannon transfer student terrified of growing up."Lance is working on his third beer and feeling a little warm, a little blurred around the edges, when he catches someone staring at him. His vision is starting to get a little fuzzy, so he can't distinguish too many fine details, but his brain says 'boy,' 'hot,' and 'mullet, what the fuck,' with a kind of drunken certainty that is impossible to ignore."





	1. Chapter 1

     Hunk kills the engine, keys jingling slightly in the ignition. Amber light oozes through the windshield, silhouetting a tiny succulent on the dashboard, a birthday present from Pidge that's been there God-knows-how-long. An old McDonald's cup, half-filled with flat soda, rests haphazardly on the floor at Lance's feet. The carpeting is worn through in places, leaving little tufts of insulation exposed. Light glints greasily off of tools scattered around the truck, and dies somewhere in the shadowed backseat, in the few open spaces between engine parts and a heavy toolbox Hunk keeps around, 'just in case.' Lance never asked what the 'just in case' was for. He assumed it was 'just in case' Yellow (as Hunk had, in a wild burst of creativity, named his rusty yellow truck) ever broke down. Lance wonders if Hunk has a second toolbox, a secret, mental one, that he keeps around for when Lance breaks down. Just in case.

     "Lance?" Hunk is looking at his hands, resting easily on the steering wheel. Ten and two. It reminds Lance of their driver's ed class together freshman year, Lance overly enthusiastic and reckless on the road, Hunk his ever-patient, gentle self. The pleasant memory brings a quiet half-smile to his face, until he is drowning in a flood of nostalgia and feels a sharp pain in his chest, where he imagines his heart would be if she hadn't ripped it out and left it shattered in pieces around his feet, Lance still holding a wilting bouquet of goldenrod. He catches a glimpse of his face in the side mirror, thin lips twisted into a pained grimace, and looks away.  
"Lance?" Hunk asks again, still looking at his hands. They are clenched tightly, now, his knuckles darkening with the force of his grip. The honey tinted light washes over Hunk's face, smoothing the lines of his troubled expression into something warmer. "I know you've been having a hard time since-- since Nyma, and . . . I don't want to force you into this, but I think it'd be good for you to at least try." One of Hunk's massive, roughened hands leaves the wheel to push back his thick black hair, tucking errant strands into an orange bandanna that circles his forehead. He'd worn it during detasseling season and the tan line was so atrocious he ended up wearing it for the rest of the year. Hunk finally glances over at Lance, flashing his friend a gentle grin. "Maybe stay for an hour or so. See Pidge and Shay. If you really think the party's gonna blow, we can go. It's up to you."  
The keys still dangle from the ignition. Lance gazes over the wind-buffeted field to their right, fading sunset turning the dry, brittle cornstalks into golden chest-high waves. A wispy column of blue-grey smoke rises from the center of the field, likely the beginnings of a bonfire. The distant hum of cicadas fills the silence stretching between Lance and Hunk. The heady smell of exhaust and dust reminds Lance, vividly and immediately, of when he and Hunk were young -- eight, maybe? -- and spent their summer playing in the creek on the edge of town, and he's drowning again in nostalgia, trying and failing to claw his way to the surface.  
"Yeah," Lance whispers. He clears his throat, harsh in the relative silence, and tries again. "Yeah, let's go." Hunk smiles, a full, wide one this time, and Lance has to look away. Hunk pulls the keys out of the ignition and leans over Lance to push his door open -- the handle tends to stick and time has shown Yellow only responds to Hunk's touch. As the door swings open, Lance is hit by the full sweltering heat of the Nebraskan September and mentally curses the first dumbass teenager who decided partying in a cornfield was a good idea.

  
     By the time Lance manages to push through the oppressive heat and jump out of Yellow, Hunk is already moving through the cornfield with a case of beer settled effortlessly on his broad shoulders. A surge of jealousy tugs at him for a minute, as it often did around his best friend. Hunk is tall and exactly the right kind of broad, with the bulky shoulders and arms you'd expect from a mechanic. He already had his life figured out -- a mechanical engineering degree from MIT or Duke, intern at NASA, try and get a full time job working in aerospace, then settle down and start a family. His life was practically laid out for him, something Lance would kill to have. He wasn't stupid, he knew Hunk had worked hard to keep his grades up and become a kick-ass mechanic, but he just made it look so easy. Pidge was almost as bad as Hunk -- they were only a sophomore and had colleges all over the world eating out of their tiny palm. It seemed, lately, that everyone already had everything planned out. Everyone except for Lance. He doesn't care where he goes or what he does, as long as he can get out of this shitty, dusty, population-4,000-and-shrinking Nebraska panhandle ghost town. He wants to be less Lance and more Hunk, or more Pidge, more anyone else -- Hunk is warm and genuine, always smiling, Pidge is whip smart and snarky, but Lance is just a plain-looking eighteen year old who gets swept away by the tides of his emotions the second he encounters any type of turbulence. He's moody, vain, sensitive, thin as a rake and hungry for the type of life he knows he'll never get if he stays in the rural countryside for the rest of his life. Lance knows he must've been content with his life at some point, but after Nyma shredded his heart, he's become less and less content with his little town, little school, little life. He can feel his jeans slipping down his thin hips as he trudges through the dusty field, and wishes he had stopped to throw on a belt before he left with Hunk.

     Lance is pulled from his thoughts when he bumps into Hunk, realizing they've stopped in a clearing in the field. Dry stalks are trampled into the dust in a wide circle. Hunk makes some quip about crop circles and Lance humors him with an easy smile, the joke not really registering. Logs, sticks, dried corn stalks, boards, even old furniture pieces are stacked into a pile in the center of the clearing, smoldering gently as a few kids encourage the blaze with lighter fluid. The fading golden light bleeds across the clearing in one last dazzling burst, painting everyone in various golden-orange shades. Lance looks at his hands, dark skin almost honey colored in the rosy sunset, and thinks about how Nyma liked to trace the lines on his palms -- and God, he needs to get drunk. Now.

     "Hunk? Lance? Lance! Feels like I haven't seen you in forever, man!" Pidge jogs over to the pair, wild hair sticking up, glowing red like a little fire in the dusky light. Their glasses reflect the last vestiges of sun, eyes hidden under the glare. Lance raises a hand in unenthusiastic greeting. He loves his friends, he really does, but he can't seem to shake his bad mood recently. It's like he's separated from everyone by a thick wall of glass. Everything that reaches him is muffled and distorted, and it'd take a hell of a lot more energy than he has to break through it. He just wants to make it through his senior year and move somewhere far away. If he can outrun himself and start over somewhere new, maybe he can shake his moodiness. Pidge shoves a warm 12 oz into his hand, something cheap, and he cracks it open gladly. It tastes flat, and a little yeasty, but it'll get him just as drunk as good beer, so he couldn't care less. Pidge drags Hunk away to talk to Shay, leaving Lance to grab another beer or three and people-watch. The sun, reddened by the dusty air, finally sinks below the horizon. The bonfire begins to crackle in earnest, orange-yellow flames licking at the starry sky. The harvest moon hangs, large and pendulous, above the party like a peeled orange. Someone's brought out a stereo, which is blasting all of the Latest Country Hits! across the party, which consists of maybe a hundred slightly drunk teens from every different social group. There were the popular country hicks, emo hicks, smart hicks, dumb hicks, and all other assorted types of country bumpkin. God bless the panhandle.

     Lance is working on his third beer and feeling a little warm, a little blurred around the edges, when he catches someone staring at him. His vision is starting to get a little fuzzy, so he can't distinguish too many fine details, but his brain says 'boy,' 'hot,' and 'mullet, what the fuck,' with a kind of drunken certainty that is impossible to ignore. He flashes what feels like a charming, if not slightly goofy wink across the clearing to Hot Mullet Boy, and isn't surprised when he receives a cold glare in response. Lance is 99% certain the entire LGBT community consists of only him and Pidge for a 100 mile radius. He sighs and settles back into the trampled corn stalks. He doesn't want to risk looking back over at Hot Mullet Boy, so he stares at the sky instead. This far out into the country, the light pollution is almost nonexistent, and you can see the Milky Way in perfect clarity. It's beautiful, and incredibly romantic, especially now that some country singer is crooning about being in love over the stereo. He catches sight of Hunk and Shay slow-dancing near the bonfire, Shay straining to reach Hunk's shoulders and Hunk stooping to hold her waist. It's awkward and mismatched, but Shay is blushing and Hunk is grinning like an idiot, and it's so disgustingly adorable Lance physically feels himself leaning away from the happy couple. If he was in Hunk's place, he'd want a little space to enjoy the moment. He knows what it's like to be infatuated with someone. Certain moments are frozen in a drop of amber, warm and glowing, perfect, things you'll remember for the rest of your life, and he can tell this dance is going to be one such memory for Hunk. He shoots Hunk a text to read later -- 'if u need i can find a ride home. luv u be safe ;))' -- and stumbles to his feet. The alcohol hits him harder, then, colors smearing across his field of vision, and he wonders if maybe he should just stay put. Lance shuffles out of the clearing, moving slowly to keep upright, and finds his way to Yellow, parked on the soft shoulder of the gravel road. The air is colder than he expected away from the bonfire. He leans up against Hunk's rusted out truck to rest, feeling shittier and lonelier than before. A black motorcycle emblazoned with a red flame insignia is propped up next to the truck, and Lance thinks it's the most obnoxiously edgy fucking thing he's ever seen in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cornfield parties are real i have been to one do not test me 
> 
> lemme know if u like it, and if i should write more!


	2. Chapter 2

     Lance is shitfaced. The realization hits him as he attempts to move forward, only to find himself unexpectedly horizontal in the cracked dirt between Hunk's truck and the edgy motorcycle. A flume of dust fans out around him from the impact. He feels like a shinshilla. Chinshilla? One of those fluffy guys that roll around in dust to get clean. He rolls around a few times and gets a mouthful of dirt and gravel. Oh well. Ces-c'est la-that's life. There's a rock pressing into his shoulder, and his shirt has bunched up around his chest from rolling around, but otherwise, he's surprisingly comfortable. His phone dings after an indeterminable amount of time (ten seconds? ten hours? who knows), and he fishes it out of his pocket, a difficult task because it's currently underneath him. The screen swims in his vision, and he can vaguely make out a text from Hunk -- 'lance where r u?' He fumbles with the passcode a few times before he gets it right. His hands are shaking like leaves in a tornado, a uniquely shitty sort of weather he's experienced maybe four times in his life (thanks Nebraska). He manages to tap out a quick 'yse i am good ilu hnk' before he drops the phone on his face. He thinks he yells something like "fuck" or "ouch" out loud but isn't entirely sure. He's starting to feel like he's underwater; everything sounds vaguely muffled, the starry navy sky is flowing above him like the ocean, he feels like he's floating on top of warm, gentle waves. The way the stars are swirling around is starting to make him feel seasick, so he closes his eyes and starts to hum "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to himself. 

     Lance wakes up maybe six years later when someone gently shakes his shoulder. Lance opens his eyes, slowly, tiredly, begrudgingly (he was just having a _nap_ why couldn't anyone  _respect_ that) and looks directly into the face of an angel. Pink lips, longish black hair (mullet? what the _fuck_ ), and a divinely beautiful expression of concern. Something else captures Lance's druken, rambling imagination, however, and keeps him there in the moment: he feels like he's drowning in the fact that he--the angel-- has gorgeous eyes, a deep and elusive color that reminds him of the dark wispy smoke that plumed off of the bonfire when he and Hunk arrived, what? a trillion years ago? , or maybe the deep places of the ocean you see in aerial photographs, the kind of shade that marks the presence of an abyss under the calm, glassy water. Everyone knows that (Not-Neet-Nietzche?) Nietzche quote about staring into the abyss, but Lance can't help himself. He wants, with an intensity that almost scares himself, to reach up and touch the angel's hair -- it looks like it'd be incredibly soft and he just has to feel it -- and since he's absolutely hammered and nothing that's happening is probably even real, he does. He reaches one thin, shaky hand up and threads his fingers through the long, dark hair, and finds that it is in fact the softest thing he's ever touched. A little anti-climactic, sure, but still fantastic. And heavenly. Heh. Nice pun, Lance. Thanks, Lance. Lance wishes he could freeze time in this moment, this angel looks so otherworldly and beautiful under the moonlight, a type of pure aristocratic beauty that would be intimidating if he weren't so smashed. Seeing that he's awake, the angel smiles, and then opens his rose pink lips to say--

     "Are you the guy who just yelled "fuckass! my phone!" and then started humming the alphabet song?" The angel (who Lance has decided at this point is probably a real person, actually, and not a dream or heavenly vision) is now staring down at Lance, wearing a vaguely superior smirk and cocking a perfectly shaped eyebrow in a way that is so sexy it should be  _illegal_   -- and Lance gets a little flustered, a little heated, and says the first thing that comes to mind: "It was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, not the ABC's" and then immediately considers drowning himself in the ditch-water ten feet away.

    Not-angel smirks harder and moves out of Lance's space, leaning back against Yellow. Lance pulls himself into a sitting position and does the same, the cool press of Yellow's metal side grounding him a little more solidly in reality. They sit side by side in silence for a while, allowing Lance's alcohol-addled brain to catch up and make a few realizations: not-angel was Hot Mullet Boy from earlier, and Hot Mullet Boy was someone he'd never seen before; a rare experience in a small town. Lance shuffles his feet around in the dust for a few seconds, trying to think of something clever or interesting to say, but gives up and goes with "I'm Lance. Who are you?" 

     "Keith. Nice to meet you, Lance." 

     "Nice to meet you too. Are you new in town?" 

     Keith's expression registers a brief flash of surprise, then smooths over. "Yeah, I just moved in. How'd you know?" He's acting casual, but Lance can sense that there's something deeper in the question; he's reading maybe nervousness or suspicion, a touch of sadness, but he doesn't want to pry so he just says "You're a new face. Not many of those 'round these parts," and hates himself for sounding like the country hick he is. Keith doesn't seem to mind, though, and flashes Lance a shy sort of smile. "I can tell. I almost feel like I'm in Footloose. Big city kid moves to the middle of nowhere, lives in a small, very religious town. . . well, I guess that's where the similarities end. Dancing is legal here, thank God." Keith is fiddling with something at chest level, but it's too dark to see exactly what. Lance picks up a pebble and chucks it toward the ditch on their left, hearing a soft 'plop' when it hits the stagnate water at the bottom. "So you're Ren. Got it. Does that make me Ariel?" Realizing how unintentionally flirty he sounds, Lance desperately backpedals and adds, "Ariel because I hate this town. I need to get out, but I don't know how. And I don't know if I ever will." He's saying a little too much, he realizes, but he's drunk and it's too late to take it back anyway. Keith stops fiddling (with a camera, Lance realizes belatedly) and looks Lance dead in the eye, and he feels himself falling back into the abyss, until Keith says "You seem like the kind of guy that can do whatever he puts his mind to." He has no idea what Keith is basing this opinion on-- he found Lance drunk off his ass, rolling around in dust singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, for chrissake-- but for some reason, Keith seems dead serious, totally convinced, and it makes Lance feel just the tiniest bit better about himself. Strangely touched, he leans back in silence and looks back at the stars. He hears Keith take a sharp breath beside him, but doesn't think much of it until he hears a shutter click. He doesn't know if Keith is aiming the camera at him or the stars, but he doesn't really care either way. Still staring at the sky, he asks, "You a photographer?" 

     Keith stretches his legs out flat, and Lance hears his knees pop. "Not professionally or anything. I just like taking pictures. It's like. . . if you take a photo of something, it'll stay that way forever. You can capture little moments of time, like magic. Things-- or even people--get older, or fade, or die, but if you have the photo, they're never really gone." 

     Lance is quiet. He feels like Keith is talking more to himself than to anyone else. He sounds sad, and regretful, and frustrated, and Lance realizes suddenly that Keith isn't speaking hypothetically about losing someone. Keith looks lost in his thoughts, thick black hair shadowing his eyes. Lance is sobering up, thanks to the cold, but it doesn't make Keith look any less gorgeous. It has the opposite effect, in that he now realizes Keith is wearing black jeans and a black motorcycle jacket-- something so ridiculously Hot Topic it would be a turnoff on anyone else. He wants to steer the conversation back to a happier place, and prods Keith's leg with a bare foot (when had he taken off his shoes?). "Nice jacket. Do you drive a motorcycle?" Lance is fully expecting the answer to be 'no, I just like how it looks,' and is surprised when Keith smirks (does this kid have any other facial expressions? Christ almighty) and gestures to the obnoxiously edgy black motorcycle parked next to Yellow. "You're lookin at her." 

     Lance looks between the bike and Keith. "Seriously? This is yours?" 

     Lance is fighting back a laugh as loud and obnoxious as Keith's motorcycle when he hears his phone ding again-- probably Hunk. "Hey, Keith, I gotta go, but I'll see you around, okay?" Keith nods and stands up, dusting off his skinny jeans. "Me too, actually. See you 'round." Lance is eye level with Keith's ass as he walks away, and revises his initial impression of Keith: less angel, more devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i updated much faster than I was initially planning, but here it is! please let me know if u liked it, or if u have any criticism! i love hearing feedback!!

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ coloredpencilroses


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